Winter is Coming
by Sigma7
Summary: AU. It has been nearly fourteen years since a great rebellion put Robert Baratheon on The Iron Throne, and The Seven Kingdoms sit on the precipice, as men and women with old scores to settle put plans in motion, and rivalries that emerged in the post-Targaryen order come to a head. To make matters worse, an ancient foe rises from centuries of slumber, and winter is coming...
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The Wall.

A massive barrier, built of ice, stone, earth, wood, and, according to legend, magic, stretching one hundred leagues, east to west, over seven hundred feet high, for the most part, though there were some points where the foundation was built atop tall hills, causing it's highest points to reach heights of near nine hundred feet.

At the top of The Wall, it was wide enough for a dozen mounted knights to ride abreast, and it got increasingly thicker the further down one went. Down at the base stood the castles of the Sworn Brotherhood of The Night's Watch, an ancient order of warriors sworn to defend the realms of men from what lay beyond The Wall.

According to legend, Bran The Builder raised The Wall, with the help of giants, and The Children of The Forest, in The Age of Heroes, thousands of years ago, after The First Men and The Children defeated creatures- or some would say 'demons' -called The Others, and their supposed Army of The Dead; dead men, women and even beasts, brought back to life by their dark magic.

According to legend, after The Wall was raised, The Night's Watch was formed by a band of warriors who had fought and defeated The Others, in The Battle for The Dawn, to keep watch upon The Wall, and guard against The Others, should they ever return.

It seemed to Ser Garlan Tyrell, a ranger and sworn brother, that the only thing The Wall, or The Watch, was keeping back these days were men; wildlings, as the folk that lived beyond The Wall were called.

Though it seemed that way, Ser Garlan couldn't help but think that, if all The Wall or The Watch were meant to be nothing more than a means to keep men- men not much different than most, if a bit rougher and more primitive in their ways -from coming south, such a thing could be far more easily done with a few strategically placed forts, and good, well trained cavalry.

To Garlan's mind, no one with any sense builds a wall, seven hundred feet high, one hundred leagues long, backed by nineteen castles, and mans it with a sworn brotherhood of warriors, who take a lifelong vow to do the job, just to keep men off their lands. To Garlan's mind, the only conceivable reason The First Men, and The Children- if the latter ever truly existed -would build such a thing, and form such an order as The Watch, was that they felt a very real need to do so. Otherwise, none of it made any sense, not in the slightest.

At least, not to an educated mind, and Ser Garlan, as the second son of Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Defender of The Marches, High Marshal of The Reach, and Warden of The South, was fortunate enough to posses just such a mind. Garlan's youth had been spent far to the south, in The Reach; the most fertile lands in the whole of The Seven Kingdoms, where the climate was mild, even in the winter, and well suited to all manner of agriculture. At Highgarden, his family seat since Aegon's Conquest, lush gardens and orchards grew within the very walls of the magnificent castle itself.

As the son of a high lord of The Realm, Garlan was **very** thoroughly educated, by his maester, but also by more than a few well regarded scholars, whom his father- or, more than likely, his grandmother -had sent for, to ensure that, even if House Tyrell were not the most powerful house in The Seven Kingdoms, it's heirs would be the best educated, and thus, more like to increase Highgarden's power in the future.

Such matters would be handled by his siblings, however, for Garlan had taken the black- another term for joining The Watch -not long after his eighteenth nameday, which was not long after he'd been knighted. Brothers of The Night's Watch swear an oath to take no wives, father no children, wear no crowns, and win no glory. The oath is also for life, and, as such, Highgarden would rise or fall on the merits of his older brother, Willas, the heir to House Tyrell, and his younger brother, Loras, fast becoming a skilled and cunning young warrior in his own right. It would fall to Willas and Loras to win glory, wear crowns, marry ladies of high standing, and sire the heirs of Highgarden. Not that this bothered Garlan overly much, as crowns and glory didn't matter for much to him. The company of women...well, Garlan wouldn't go so far as to say he hadn't made _**any**_ sacrifices in joining The Watch.

Of course, then there was the matter of his lone sister, Margaery, through whom Garlan was most certain that his house's fortunes would rise. Their grandmother and mother had been grooming her for such practically since she was born, from what Garlan could remember, and what Garlan could remember was quite a lot. Even a blind man- provided he wasn't also deaf -would see that such was so, if he'd spent so much as an hour with Margaery; the etiquette, refinement and polish engrained in his sister's very being would show that this was no ordinary highborn lady.

Margaery was being groomed as a future queen.

One way, or another.

The young ranger sighed at his thoughts of home, as such thoughts tended to cause him to do, and, in the frigid air at the top of The Wall, a plume formed, as quickly as the sigh left his mouth. He hated watch duty. It was, without question, the most boring thing he'd ever done in all his twenty years, two of which were spent here, at The Wall.

He wanted to be out **there** , where his eyes were set, on the vast forests beyond, and the horizon beyond that. He loved ranging, and he was good at it. Much like his horsemanship, swordsmanship, lancing, archery, and all the myriad things he'd been taught growing up, when it came to ranging, he'd been taught by the very best; Qhorin Halfhand, one of the toughest, most cunning men Garlan had ever met, and Benjen Stark, First Ranger of The Night's Watch, a son of the paramount house of The North- House Stark -and a native to these lands. Between the two of them, Garlan learned to set aside some of the courtesies expected of an anointed knight, and fight- and think -like a ranger.

Their lessons had saved his life more than a couple of times, out there, beyond The Wall, as had both men.

Benjen's eldest brother, Lord Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of The North, came to mind now, as his thoughts shifted from home, to his mentors among The Watch, to the man most responsible for his being here in the first place.

When Garlan was only six years old, Lord Brandon rose in rebellion against King Aerys Targaryen, called 'The Mad King'- and, if stories about the king were true, he'd certainly earned the name -to avenge the murder of his father and the abduction of his sister, Lyanna, by Rhaegar Targaryen, who had been, at the time, Prince of Dragonstone, and heir to King Aerys. Prince Rhaegar was _also_ a **married** man, a point not lost on Lord Brandon, nor his late father, Lord Rickard Stark.

Such a thing simply could not be allowed to stand. If anyone- even a king, or a future king -can take hostage a member of your house, and there are no consequences, your house loses it power; it's standing. To lose that much would drive most houses to war, but with House Stark it was much more than that.

In the end, as Benjen had explained it to him one day, Brandon cared not a whit about power, or stature, or losing face. For Brandon, it was a matter of honor, and for a Stark to allow a dishonor to his house to go unchecked, well, such a thing was unthinkable. All the rest could be damned to the hells, but perhaps there was no house in all The Seven Kingdoms that valued their honor more than House Stark.

An abducted- and probably violated -daughter, or sister, or wife...to a Stark, those were grounds for the spilling of as much blood as it would take to see that honor restored.

Lord Rickard rode to King's Landing, with only a small retinue of personal guards, seeking an audience with Aerys, and at first, he was received cordially.

In his personal audience with The Mad King, Lord Rickard asked for but two things: First, for his daughter's return, and, secondly, for The King to admonish his son, and the two knights of The Kingsguard also implicated in the abduction- Ser Oswell Whent, and Ser Arthur Dayne, The Sword of The Morning- for their actions.

The Mad King's response was to have Lord Rickard's men slaughtered, after which The Lord of Winterfell was stripped naked, flogged, and thrown in the nefarious Black Cells; the deepest, darkest dungeons beneath The Red Keep.

Aerys then sent ravens to Riverrun and The Eyrie, with simple messages:

To Lord Hoster Tully, he demanded that Brandon, and also Ser Elbert Arryn, a close friend of Brandon's who was also the nephew and heir of Lord Jon Arryn, Lord of The Eyrie, Defender of The Vale, and Warden of The East, be given over to The Crown.

To Lord Arryn, he demanded that Lord Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, and Lord Paramount of The Stormlands- to whom Lyanna was betrothed -and, also, Lord Rickard's second son, Eddard, be given over to The Crown.

The reasoning, as it was understood, was simple, really:

Brandon was to be given over to The Crown to keep him from returning to The North and calling his father's banners in his father's stead. Lord Robert was to be given over to keep him from returning to the Stormlands and calling **his** banners. Eddard, as Rickard's second son, was to be given over to keep him from returning to The North, and calling the banners in his father's and brother's stead. Ser Elbert was to be given over as a hostage to ensure total compliance by Jon Arryn to Aerys demands...and to keep Jon Arryn from entertaining any ideas of calling **his own** banners.

It was in all of these actions that Aerys made the war that followed an inevitability.

Before he'd set out from Riverrun for the capital, Lord Rickard had given his eldest son Ice, the ancestral, Valyrian steel, greatsword of House Stark. "What if you should need it?" asked Brandon, to which Lord Rickard replied "If I would need it, I'm certain you'll need it more for what would follow. If the worst should happen, it will serve you better than I."

Lord Rickard was proven to be most wise in his assessment.

Lord Tully, was an honorable man. He would not hand over two young knights, almost certain that they would be slaughtered. He also had faith that, when he called his banners, more of his bannermen than not would answer his call.

He was also a rather shrewd man in the political sense. He already had _**one**_ heir of a paramount house betrothed to his eldest daughter. Now, as he saw it, he had _**two**_.

At one time, Lord Tully had betrothed Lysa, his second daughter, to Ser Jaime Lannister, son of Lord Tywin Lannister, who, at the time, had been Hand to King Aerys, but was also Lord of Casterly Rock, and Warden of The West. That ended when the heir to Casterly Rock was made Kingsguard by Aerys, bound by oaths much like The Watch, in that he would take no wife, father no children, and inherit no lands, nor titles- a final insult to Lord Tywin, meant to wound deeper than any other insult he could think of.

Now, Ser Elbert Arryn, heir to Lord Jon Arryn, was beneath his roof, under his protection...and the young man was also unspoken for.

An alliance was forged: Brandon would wed Catelyn, Elbert would wed Lysa. In one ceremony, The North, Riverlands, Vale and Stormlands were allied in rebellion against The Iron Throne. Lord Robert would have to wait for Lyanna, but Brandon assured him that, whatever may happen, the marriage agreement between their houses would be held to.

Brandon and Elbert would not even have a full evening with their new brides, as they were forced to slip out of Riverrun in the middle of the night, under cover of darkness, to conceal their movement from crown spies.

So it came to pass, Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully called their banners. In both cases, most of their bannermen answered the call, but not all. A group of loyalist lords took up position at Gulltown, momentarily keeping Robert Baratheon from traveling to The Stormlands, but Eddard Stark crossed The Mountains of The Moon, to the southern shores of The Bite, and secured passage from a fisherman there, to White Harbor, the great port city of The North.

Lord Brandon rode north, with the rest of the Winterfell guard that had come south with Lord Rickard, while Ser Elbert rode east, with a small retinue from the Riverrun guard, to the Highroad, and The Bloody Gate, to join his uncle's arms in The Vale.

When Ser Elbert arrived in The Vale, he was just in time to join his uncle's arms on the march to Gulltown, where the arms of House Arryn, and their loyal bannermen, smashed the lords loyal to The Iron Throne, and took control of the port city, allowing Robert to sail home to Storm's End.

By the time he reached Winterfell, Brandon learned that his father had been executed- burned alive, with wildfire -for treason. He called his banners, and the whole of The North answered the call, with Ned arriving at Winterfell not long after, with Lord Manderly's arms, but also a wife of his own.

A great and bloody war followed; Robert arrived at Storm's End and called his banners, then, at Summerhall, he defeated the arms of three separate loyalist houses in three separate battles in a single day. Overconfident with those victories, and having brought the majority of the loyalist lords into his fold, he marched into The Reach, but was stalemated at Ashford, by Lord Randyll Tarly, who'd been in command of Father's van.

Much as he loved his father, Garlan thought the man either a craven or a fool for his actions after Ashford. He had Lord Robert in the open. He had the numbers to pursue, encircle, and crush the Stormlanders- possibly break the rebellion's back right there, in The Reach itself.

Instead, Father marched east, to Storm's End, and laid siege to Robert's home, and a garrison of five hundred men...and sat there, feasting within sight of the castle walls. Garlan's uncle, Paxter Redwyne, used the Redwyne fleet not to bring reinforcement to the capital, but to blockade Storm's End.

Instead, it was left to Lord Jon Connington, Hand to King Aerys, to lead a Crownlands force, supplemented by Riverlords loyal to House Targaryen, to Stoney Sept, where Robert had taken refuge, with a small group of men, while the rest of his arms continued north, to link up with the full power of the rebel arms; the combined might of The North, Vale and Riverlords loyal to Riverrun.

Connington entered the town and began a building to building search for Robert. With his arms divided, half within the walled town, half outside it's walls, a combined advance force of the rebel arms, led by Ser Denys Arryn, fell upon them from both the east and west, nearly trapping the whole of the Crown army in a double envelopment that the half of the army outside the town's walls were forced to fight their way out of.

Within the walls, the Crown army was slaughtered, with Lord Brandon cleaving Lord Connington's head in twain with a single blow from _Ice_.

While the rebels regrouped, and headed north, the surviving half of Connington's army fled back to King's Landing, demoralized, and near broken.

It was then that Rhaegar arrived to lead a larger force, backed by Dornish spearmen, to rally the loyalist arms and march north, to the final battle of the war.

At a place now called The Crimson Ford, on The Trident, Lord Brandon cut his way through many great knights, including two knights of The Kingsguard- Ser Jonothor Darry, whom he slew, and Ser Barristan Selmy, whom he merely left near death -to get to Rhaegar, the source of all the woe that had befallen House Stark.

In the middle of the ford, Ice and Fire clashed...and Lord Brandon cut Prince Rhaegar in two, from just inside his left collar bone, through his chest, and out just above his right hip. So much blood filled the water when Rhaegar was slain that it stained the waters crimson for a great distance in every direction.

After that, Tywin Lannister, after entering the capital under the false pretense of coming to Aerys aid to defend the city, sacked King's Landing, and his son, Ser Jaime, slew the very king he'd sworn an oath to protect.

Not long after that, Lord Brandon, and Ser Eddard, marched the new Crown Arms south, lifting the siege of Storm's End.

It was said that all it took for Father to dip **_his_** banners was the sight of the blood stained banners of Winterfell approaching.

The war was over. Now, only the peace remained.

It was what occurred in Dorne, after the surrender of The Reach arms, that guaranteed that the peace would be a vengeful one.

Lady Lyanna had died there, while captive to Prince Rhaegar. Lord Brandon and King Robert now required more than mere oaths of fealty to sate their anger.

Lord Stark had put much thought into his vengeance, however. As such, he devised a plan that would satisfy all of the victors, while crippling the vanquished in their capacity to rise later.

King Robert, and his new Hand, Lord Jon Arryn, needed time to cement the new regime's hold on The Seven Kingdoms, and to do that, they needed to pacify the noble houses that had stayed loyal to House Targaryen. Lord Tully, whose lands sat between the loyalist Reach and Crownlands, and had even been forced to fight some of his own bannermen at Stoney Sept and The Trident, needed peace of mind; if a new war were to break out, _**his lands**_ would be the first to bleed, as the The Riverlands always seemed to be the ground upon which most of the battles, of most of the wars in the entire history of Westeros were fought.

With this in mind, Lord Brandon provided them with a solution to their concerns: The Black Sanctions.

The numbers of The Night's Watch had dwindled greatly by the time of the rebellion. Only three of the nineteen castles along The Wall were manned, and The Gift, the lands set aside by Bran The Builder, and later, added to by Queen Alysanne, wife of King Jaehaerys I, to sustain The Watch, were nearly abandoned entirely, and overgrown. Lord Brandon was most adamant on correcting this problem.

It was not uncommon for vanquished lords or rebellious knights, and other criminals, to be given the choice of taking the black over death. Lord Brandon suggested that the victors make that choice **for** the vanquished.

Thus, The Black Sanctions were drafted and agreed upon by the victors: King Robert, Lord Jon Arryn, Lord Hoster Tully, Lord Brandon Stark, and even Lord Tywin Lannister, who'd secured his seat at the table by taking King's Landing, _**and**_ providing King Robert with a wife befitting a king, in his daughter Cersei.

In accordance to The Black Sanctions, the loyalist noble houses of the Riverlands, Stormlands, Reach and Crownlands were to send a fit male of their house to The Wall, without exception. Loyalist knights and the City Watch of King's Landing were sent, one and all, to take the black, again, without exception, save for one: Ser Barristan Selmy, who was pardoned by King Robert, out of admiration.

Further, the noble houses that had remained loyal to the Targaryens were required to send a number of fit, young, men from their lands to The Wall- every year -for twenty years, beginning in 284, when the formal peace was signed.

It had been fourteen years since, and, the fresh men who arrived each year began to add up, swelling the ranks of The Night's Watch such that now **fifteen** of the nineteen castles at The Wall were fully manned, and The Gift was restored to it's original purpose.

The cost to restore or rebuild the castles and The Wall was to be paid, mostly, by the vanquished loyalist houses. Those same houses were also required to send shipments of food stores, tools, building materials, and everything from wool, leather, and linen for clothes, to steel for weapons and armor, to all manner of apothecary supplies that could be found in those lands.

At only one third their market price.

There was still quite a bit of resentment in those areas most affected by The Black Sanctions, but this was alleviated in some small part, when, five years later, after Lord Balon Greyjoy launched a failed rebellion of his own, The Black Sanctions were levied upon The Iron Islands as well.

Those numbers were bolstered further, as, many a young man with few or no prospects, even second born and lower sons of noble houses that had supported The Stark Rebellion, found a well funded, well accommodated life at The Wall as a viable opportunity to make something of themselves, serve a greater purpose, or simply escape a life of boredom or crime.

To some degree, The Black Sanctions had brought Garlan to The Wall.

House Tyrell needed to send a son to The Wall, in compliance with the sanctions, true, but Garlan didn't **need** to be the son to go; Willas was unfit to serve, due to a lamed leg, suffered in his first and only joust. Loras, however, the third son of their house, could have gone, as many expected, once he came of age.

Garlan, however, had read of The Night's Watch, and knowing his younger brother as he did, he was certain such a life would be lived in misery. With all of that in mind, Garlan volunteered, two years past, and regretted little of the decision. He actually enjoyed life at the veritable edge of the world, strange as that would seem to most.

In a way, Garlan thought, he had two men to thank for that: Lord Brandon, for conceiving of The Black Sanctions, and his own father, for being such an inept field commander during the war.

With his thoughts on Lord Brandon, he did another sweep of the vast, open plain before him, as, more than a turn of the moon ago, Lord Brandon himself, accompanied by two dozen mounted men of The Black Wolves, had come to The Wall, held lengthy discussions with Lord Commander Mormont, and also Maester Aemon, at Castle Black, then passed through the tunnel there and headed north.

For what reason, Garlan did not know, and if any of his sworn brothers in The Watch knew, they were keeping it to themselves. All Garlan knew was this: Lord Brandon and his men hadn't been seen or heard from since, and Benjen was preparing a great ranging party to go looking for them. Garlan had been the first to volunteer, and Benjen had been glad of it, and said so. They were to leave in three days, which was probably why most of the men on watch duty the past week had been men who'd volunteered for the ranging.

There had been a lot of wildling activity of late; wildlings captured on both sides of The Wall told stories that beggared belief, and had Garlan not been present to look one such wildling man in the eye, he probably would have dismissed the claims as nonsense.

The tales were both strange, and troubling; Mance Rayder, a former sworn brother, now living among the wildlings, was said to be rallying **all** of the wildlings to form a massive army to march on The Wall. This was, compared to some of the other tales, the least troubling, strange as that would seem.

Other stories spoke of the dead rising, entire villages and camps vanishing, and sightings of The Others...

His thoughts were jolted by the blast of a horn.

One blast. That meant a ranger coming in.

Then he saw it, far below, a lone rider, his horse at full gallop, had cleared the tree line, some five leagues out. It looked like a small, black, speck, but it was moving towards The Wall, and quickly.

"Let's 'ave a look then..." The Halfhand grumbled, raising his far-eye to get a better look. "Damn! I'm headin' below. Garlan, Harkyn, with me!" he barked.

Garlan fell into line behind The Halfhand, and spoke, "What troubles?"

As they reached the lift and boarded it, ringing the bell to signal for their descent, The Halfhand blew into his hands. "That's no ranger, lad. It's no wildling on a stolen horse neither. That's Lord Bran!"

"But, he rode out with two dozen good men!" Garlan gasped in disbelief, "How-"

"I dunno, lad, but my guts are tellin' me this is the beginnin' of hard times." The old ranger replied, quietly, clearly deep in thought...

* * *

Lord Brandon had slept for nearly two full days before waking in the quarters of Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, a good friend, and, before he took the black, after the rebellion, one of his most loyal bannermen.

The Lord of Winterfell attempted to rise, but his sides ached, and he felt light headed.

"My lord," The Old Bear said softly, "lie back. Maester Aemon says you were lucky to survive so long, with three broken ribs, and near dried out as a bone. When was the last time you ate, or drank?"

Lord Brandon blinked his eyes, his focus slowly returning. "How long was I out?" he replied.

"You were barely conscious when your brother, and Qhorin Halfhand, and some of the younger rangers, retrieved you, my lord." the soft, wizened voice of Maester Aemon came in reply, "Your lips were parched, your tongue, blackened, the wound on the palm of your hand, fortunately, was cleaned and cauterized well enough. That was two days past. Were I to guess, from how my assistants described your condition, you hadn't had a drop to drink in at least two days, perhaps more. Your horse fell dead beneath you, a league from the wall. I do not wish to ask a sensitive question, but I dare not ask this one, in times like this, my lord: What became of those two dozen men that rode out of Castle Black with you, more than a moon's turn ago?"

Brandon steadied himself and tried to slow down the blur of images in his head- so many, of his journey beyond The Wall, and the things he saw there, but also the things he saw when he touched that Heart tree...

"The villages closest to The Wall- Whitetree, a few others...the people there were terribly afraid of something. Spoke with some of the folk there, the ones that _would_ speak, at least. Talk of...folk headed south, with tales of dead men, risen from the dead, and The Others."

"We cleared Craster's Keep about the third day out, I think...hard to remember now..." he continued, trying to separate what he saw in the tree with what had happened along his journey. "I think it was...two days later, we came across another village, and it was empty- not a soul to be found -but...they'd left everything behind. It didn't make any sense. They'd left everything behind; weapons, clothes, tools, food, water skins..."

Lord Commander Mormont reclined a bit in his chair, a grave look taking his face. "You say they simply abandoned the village completely? At great haste?"

"I know not, Lord Commander, for the village was deserted when we got there...and, it had been for at least a week, maybe more...one of the men...I cannot remember what it was, but, it caused us to figure it deserted for at least a week. The next one, a few days after that, just as abandoned, but, from the looks of it, more than a month past. There were...charred bones, in an open pit. I counted at least four skulls in the ashes, maybe five. When my head's cleared, I can tell you..."

He went silent now, eyes fixed on the ceiling above him.

"My lord," Maester Aemon spoke again, a bit more firmly now, "what of your men? What happened to them?"

Brandon's heart began to race. He could see the whole of it again, as if it were happening right there and then. He shut his eyes, but the scene did not change, it only seemed to become clearer. He breath quickened, until he finally let out a gasp, then was still again.

"They attacked us...a dozen of them, perhaps a score...and they cut my men to pieces...butchered them like hogs..."

His breathing steadied, and he continued, "Can't fight them with steel...not even the best, castle forged, steel. It shatters like glass after only two or three swings. Against their swords, their armor, their flesh, it matters not. Steel shatters against them all. It left the men defenseless...Only weapon that didn't break...only weapon that _could_ kill them, was _Wintersun_...my Valyrian steel sword."

He was quiet, wiping his face down, cold sweat moistening his fingers.

"By the gods..." The Old Bear said now, barely a whisper.

"Where is my blade?!" Lord Brandon asked now, almost frantically, his hands groping around the bed blindly.

Benjen appeared at his side now, and handed him his cherished blade, a longsword of the Essosi style; a blade just an inch shy of a bastard sword, with a hilt for one handed or two handed use- forged from re-worked Valyrian steel harvested from _Ice_ , which had been a greatsword -sheathed in it's black lacquered, bronze bound, weirwood scabbard.

The deep bronze of the slightly angled crossguard, with teardrop quillons at it's ends, long, grooved, tapered hilt, capped by a flared, teardrop pommel, glimmered in the firelight. "It's here, brother, and so am I." his youngest brother said, quietly, calmly, trying to reassure him.

Lord Brandon clutched the sword to his chest which seemed to calm him.

"Valyrian steel...and dragonglass. I saw The First Men, and The Children, fight them, and kill them, with weapons of dragonglass."

The men of The Watch all looked at one another curiously at Lord Brandon's statement: He'd seen the First Men and The Children? Perhaps the man had become delusional from fever.

 **"Who?!"** demanded Maester Aemon, the only man in the room whose attention was still fixed on the lord abed before them, his ancient face grown cross.

"They had eyes like blue ice, burning...their skin...pale as milk. They were tall, gaunt, nimble- so quick! It was them...I'm sure of it. The Others...gods help us all...they've come back..."

Maester Aemon's brows furrowed. " **This**...gods help us all...this is not good...We've not the strength to fight both The Others _**and**_ the wildlings! We must choose, Lord Commander, and I think that choice is clear: The Others have returned, and with them, The Order's true purpose! To defend the realms of men- from them!"

"Aye, Maester Aemon...but how do we do it? There's two Valyrian steel swords at the whole of The Wall, and I'm certain Lord Brandon's will be returning to Winterfell with him. Dragonglass...The builders found arrowheads, axe and spear heads, some daggers, even a few swords of the style of the First Men, while rebuilding and restoring the castles. Not much of it- not enough to arm every man of The Watch- not enough to arm every man in any single castle. There's some uncut, unpolished, dragonglass as well. I'm not certain how much, perhaps a few weapons worth more- perhaps more than that."

"Ah...I remember it now." the ancient maester said, his face growing a bit more hopeful, "They didn't know what to do with it, but, I had read in several ancient scrolls, and tomes, back when I could still see...I had Kennet re-read the passages for me; make a list- every item found, where it was found, what condition it was in. Many of the weapons were cracked, broken, flawed in some way, from poor storage, or crumbling stone or wood falling on them. Each castle has a copy of the list, each one stores them in a safe place. The uncut and unpolished obsidian as well. I don't know how much there is...I fear nowhere near enough, but, on Dragonstone...down in the caverns, more than you could imagine! So much of it...there's a chance, a chance that there could be enough down there. We must send a raven to Lord Stannis, Lord Commander. We _**must have**_ that dragonglass, as much as possible! As **soon** as possible!"

"You'll need...more men." Lord Brandon spoke again, his eyelids growing heavy, "The Others...in the tree...I saw them...so many of them...but worse, they bring the dead with them. Hundreds and thousands. We need more men...we need more men...wildfire...burn them all...burn them all..."

Lord Brandon's head fell to one side, causing Benjen to check on him, quickly.

"He's still breathing." the ranger said, "It's probably the strain, all of this..."

"Maester Aemon, send ravens to every castle on The Wall. I want the maesters and commanders of each castle to assemble here before the week's end. We've grave matters to discuss." Jeor Mormont said now, calm, firm, but his eyes betrayed a fear behind his stone faced mask of resolve.

"Indeed, Lord Commander." replied the blind, old, maester, "Errold, see to Lord Stark in my absence. If his condition should change, come and fetch me. I'll be in my study." he said softly, as he rose to his feet, assisted by Lucas, one of his stewards.

The Old Bear rose to his feet as well, "Benjen, I'm issuing orders to halt all sorties for now. The Watch needs to prepare before we make any moves. We don't know how close they are, or how many there are, or how fast they're traveling. We'll need to find out, soon enough, but for now, I'm keeping the gates closed, doubling the watches. I know you'd rather stay here just now, but you're First Ranger; I need you to address the men, here, at Castle Black. Tell them: No sneaking off to Mole's Town. We need every man of us here, and now."

"Aye, Lord Commander, as you wish." Benjen replied, rising to his feet, eyes still locked upon his sleeping brother.

"If anything changes, if anything should happen, I'll make sure you know." The Lord Commander replied, "Now, go. Gather the men in the mess. All of them. Tell Hobb to tap a few barrels of ale. Don't say a word until every man's had at least a horn or two. With what's coming...better to let the men enjoy it while they can, rather than let it all go to waste. I'll be there shortly...".


	2. Eddard I

**Eddard I**

Lord Eddard Stark, The Steward of Winterfell, known affectionately to those closest to him as 'Ned', continued to walk the lines of men training in the large encampment outside the walls of the great castle of Winterfell.

By Ned's estimate, there were some seven thousand men now encamped at Winterfell, preparing for the war to come, with more arriving each day.

For three turns of the moon, since his elder brother, Lord Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of The North, had returned from his perilous trek beyond The Wall, able bodied men from the surrounding area had been coming to Winterfell, in a steady stream, to organize, train; make ready for what his brother had reported- what his brother had encountered, first hand -from beyond The Wall.

The Others.

Ned wasn't sure if he'd have believed such a story if it had come from the lips of any man other than Brandon himself. The story had come from Brandon himself, however. Brandon was no madman. He wasn't a liar, and such a thing...he could think of no one who would jape about such a thing.

No one from The North, at least.

Now, Brandon was at Dragonstone, procuring dragonglass from Lord Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and Master of Ships to his own brother, Robert Baratheon, The King himself, and perhaps Ned's closest friend.

During their younger days, at least.

As The Steward of Winterfell, Ned was in charge of overseeing The North in Brandon's stead. That involved all manner of important duties; receiving and replying to countless ravens from all of the Northern lords, the maesters to those lords, and the lords and maesters and landed knights in both The Riverlands and The Vale, where Ser Elbert Arryn, ruled, in the stead Lord Jon Arryn.

A man that Ned thought of almost as a father.

Ned had had correspondence with Lord Jon, and Robert as well, over the great matter facing The Realm, and, while Robert's replies had been infrequent, and, most troublingly, somewhat disinterested, Jon Arryn's replies had gone a long way to assuage many a Northern lord's fears.

From most of the southron lords, Brandon and Ned had been met with apathy, if not ignored entirely.

Lord Renly Baratheon, Master of Laws, Lord of Storm's End, and Lord Paramount of The Stormlands, Robert's youngest brother, had said little, and had done even less, save to send a handful of knights, led by Ser Guyard Morrigen, to personally speak with Brandon. To his credit, Ser Guyard also took time to visit The Wall, and speak with Lord Commander Mormont, and also Maester Aemon, at Castle Black.

On his return journey, Ser Guyard passed through Winterfell once more, and had told Ned that he would speak with Renly on the matter personally, and stress the urgency.

Ned could only hope that such would change The Lord of Storm's End's opinion.

Ser Edmure Tully, Brandon's goodbrother, increasingly taking an active role in administering The Riverlands, in the stead of his father, Lord Hoster -who was said to be quite ill -had been one of the handful of southron lords who was taking the matter most seriously, frequently sending ravens to Winterfell, keeping Ned abreast of his own preparations to send men north.

Not that this surprised Ned much.

Ser Edmure had come to Winterfell with his sister, after the rebellion, and had fostered there for ten years, learning a great deal from Brandon, and perhaps a bit from Ned himself. As such, Edmure had a good head on his shoulders; thoughtful, a most responsible lordling, more like to think before he acted.

Just the sort of Lord Paramount of The Trident that The Realm would need in the war to come.

Ser Elbert, one of Brandon's closest friends, and Brandon's goodbrother, through his own marriage to Lady Lysa Tully, Cat's sister, had been every bit as diligent in his handling of matters in The Vale. Many ravens had flown between Winterfell and The Eyrie, and Elbert's mind on the matter was clearly one of great concern; just as Edmure was at Riverrun, Elbert was marshalling forces in The Vale, and keeping regular correspondence with Winterfell, Riverrun, and his uncle's office, in the capital.

Three kingdoms weren't enough for what was coming, however.

From what Brandon had told him, Ned knew in his heart that, to face and defeat The Others, the whole of The Realm would need to be mobilized and prepared, and send men, supplies- nothing held back.

Tywin Lannister's response to Brandon's raven had sought a personal audience with Brandon; at Casterly Rock, Riverrun, King's Landing- Winterfell, if that was what it came to. That he was willing to meet with Brandon was promising, and, from the last raven Brandon had received, before he left for White Harbor, to sail for Dragonstone, they'd agreed to meet in the capital.

Problem with Lord Tywin was, neither Brandon, nor Ned, trusted the man, not a whit.

It's difficult to trust a man who would do the things Lord Tywin had done during the rebellion...and how he'd 'helped' to bring it to an end.

From Lord Tyrell, he'd received nothing but complaints about The Black Sanctions.

"Aren't the men, and food, and supplies, and coin I send each year enough, Lord Stark?" the fat lord of Highgarden- and somehow, still Warden of The South -had sent in reply.

Were it not spoken with a grain of truth, Ned wouldn't have given it a second thought.

In truth, The Reach **had** sent thousands of men to The Wall in the near fourteen years since The Black Sanctions had been imposed, as well as gold, steel, food stores, and material support beside that, all at one third the market price, as per The Sanctions.

No, not out of the goodness of his heart, nor any sense of duty to The Iron Throne, or the Realm entire, but still, Lord Tyrell had complied with The Sanctions. If suffering the occasional complaint over the matter were the worst Brandon need suffer from House Tyrell, it was, by Ned's estimate, a bargain.

Brandon didn't even bother to send ravens to Pyke, seat of House Greyjoy, the Lords of The Iron Islands.

With what Brandon had done both during the war to crush Lord Balon's rebellion- and afterwards -it would have been an exercise in futility at best, an antagonism at worst.

When the arms of King Robert had taken The Iron Islands and crushed the rebellion, Robert turned to Brandon's heavy hand to devise a punishment for Lord Balon's treason.

After all, it had been Brandon who'd devised The Black Sanctions, and five years since they'd been implemented, at the time of Greyjoy's Rebellion, it had kept the lords of the Crownlands and Reach, as well as those houses from The Stormlands and Riverlands that had remained loyal to House Targaryen pacified- weakened...and totally compliant when Robert called The Realm to arms to crush The Ironborn.

To Brandon's mind, too many Starks had fallen to Ironborn hands over the centuries. Too often, when they had the strength to do so, it was Northern shores that the Ironborn had raided, raped, reaved and murdered upon.

Brandon took it upon himself to be the Lord of Winterfell that put and end to that forever.

It started viciously, when Brandon had two of Balon's younger brothers- Euron, who'd planned the raid on Lannisport that left the Lannister fleet burning at anchor, and Victarion, the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet, who'd carried it out -brought before him, after they'd been captured by Northern arms, and took both men's heads himself.

When Pyke finally fell, and Balon Greyjoy bent his knee, Brandon had wanted to take **his** head as well, but Robert had decided against that. To Robert's mind, Balon Greyjoy was broken:

He'd lost all three of his brothers, as Lord Tywin, upon receiving Brandon's 'gift', had sent a raven to Casterly Rock, where Aeron Greyjoy, a prisoner of House Lannister since being captured after his ship was sunk during the Battle off Fair Isle, was being held, and had him executed as well. After the war, Lord Tywin sent Brandon two chests of gold; one filled with twice the weight of Euron's head, one filled with twice the weight of Victarion's, and his thanks.

It was said that a Lannister always pays their debts, after all.

Along with all three of his brothers, Balon's two eldest sons had been killed during the war; Rodrik, his eldest and heir, had died beneath the walls of Seagard. Maron, his second eldest, was killed when the wall he was defending at Pyke was breached.

The Iron Fleet had been destroyed in the Battle off Fair Isle, and even more Ironborn ships had been destroyed when Robert, Brandon, and Ned came ashore at Pyke to lay siege, with Brandon burning every Ironborn ship on the island.

Instead of claiming Balon's head- as Brandon, and all of the Northern lords had advocated, as did Tywin Lannister, and all the lords of The Westerlands, and Stannis, and many among his officers in The Crown Fleet -Robert's ruling was a mixture of Brandon's and Jon Arryn's advice:

The Ironborn were forbidden from building ships of war without a royal commission to do so- and were to be monitored by frequent inspection by The Crown, either by The Crown Fleet, or, by the Lannister fleet or one of Brandon's post-rebellion projects: The Blazewater fleet, commanded by their respective high lords, serving in their capacity as Wardens of The West and North, respectively.

The Ironborn were to be subjected to The Black Sanctions, for a twenty year period, beginning in that very year, 289.

Lastly, Theon Greyjoy, the sole surviving son of Lord Balon, was given over to Brandon to foster- or be held a hostage, depending on how one viewed it.

With all of that in mind, Brandon didn't waste the ink and parchment even a single missive to Pyke would require. "He'd just as likely kill the raven that carried it." he'd said, and Ned was hard pressed to argue against such an assessment.

He watched many young men of The North, training with spear, bow, crossbow, sword and shield, while others drilled at marching and maneuvering on foot or horse, in formation, as their captains- veterans of The Stark Rebellion, Greyjoy's Rebellion, and even some graybeards who'd fought in The War of The Ninepenny Kings -barked orders at them, corrected those who needed it, and worked tirelessly to instill both discipline and a sense of urgency into the men.

Those young men, Ned thought, were about Theon's age.

Plenty of men at The Wall were also Theon's age.

Currently, Theon was with Brandon, having sailed as an ensign aboard the ship that brought his lord brother to Dragonstone.

Theon, all things considered, had turned out well enough. Brandon had raised him much like his own sons- Cregan, his oldest, and Bran, his youngest, alongside Ned's own sons, Jon, his eldest, the same age as Cregan, and Artos, who was the same age as Brandon's daughter, Aregelle.

Ned chuckled a bit as the thought crossed his mind that his children, and Brandon's children, had all been born in the same years; Cregan and Jon were both born during their own rebellion, Artos and Aregelle both came two years afterward, and Bran and Arya, Ned's daughter, came two years after that.

Such a strong pack.

If only Benjen had chosen a woman over The Watch.

His thoughts returned to Theon, and Brandon's wise decisions in how to raise him.

"You cannot be something you are not, nor can you be anyone other than who you are. You are Theon Greyjoy, son and heir to Balon Greyjoy, the future Lord of Pyke and The Iron Islands. You are a Greyjoy, and it's within you to be the greatest of your house that ever lived. Never forget that. Take pride in it. Embrace it, and do all that you can to be who you are." Brandon would tell Theon, from time to time, in a manner that was meant to instill a sense of self in a boy being raised in the home of a house that had nearly destroyed his own, hundreds of miles from his home.

Starting when Theon was thirteen, Brandon began sending him to sea, to connect with his heritage, but also to learn a new way to view that heritage. Theon would sail, alternately, on trade ships of The White Harbor Company, and warships of The White Harbor Fleet.

According to Lord Wyman Manderly, Master of The Fleet, and one of The Lord's Proprietor of The White Harbor Company, Theon was near ready to receive his own commission, and, with that, a ship of his own to captain.

Ned considered this to be the only light to come out of a rather dark episode in his brother's life.

When his daily review of the men was done, he mounted his horse and rode up to Winterfell.

There would, no doubt, be ravens arrived, accounts to review, reports to read- or write himself -and, before he got to that, he wanted, if it were possible, to take the children riding.

Soon enough, he thought, Jon and Cregan would be at war, with Artos soon to follow, and Bran, soon after that.

Best to let them enjoy the small things while they could.

* * *

It was a good day for a ride; fair, dry, a gentle breeze, a clear sky, and a bright sun.

About as bright as the sun got in The North.

Jon, his eldest son, rode directly to his right, a bit quiet, except when spoken to, directly, but that had always been the boy's way; quiet, thoughtful. Brandon said that Jon looked like Ned had, when Ned was his age- a veritable twin, separated only by mothers and years -and their shared disposition was uncanny.

To Jon's right rode Artos, his second eldest. Artos had the look of his mother's kin; a Dayne through and through. Though two years younger than Jon, he was just as tall, with dark black hair, and eyes like blue sapphires. Ned looked at Artos and saw what he figured Ser Arthur Dayne had looked like when he was a boy. His lady wife, Ashara Dayne, told him once that their son did look like Arthur, and she wondered if it meant he was destined to one day follow in his uncle's footsteps, as a great knight, and wield _Dawn_ , the legendary ancestral sword of House Dayne.

Artos had a mild nature, a fierce sense of honor and duty, for one so young, and was also quite good with a sword, for a boy of near thirteen years.

Perhaps Ashara was right.

To Ned's left rode Cregan, Brandon's eldest son. Cregan was a moon's turn younger than Jon, but taller, and more muscled. He looked like Brandon had at his age; gray eyes, deep black hair, tall and broad.

Cregan's disposition was much different, however. If The Wolf Blood ran through his veins, it certainly didn't show itself. The boy was more a man; stern, thoughtful, courteous, studious. He loved Jon and Artos like they were his own brothers, and Arya- Ned's daughter -as he did his own sister, Aregelle.

Cregan was, however, much like his father in one other regard: Cregan loved to train at combat, and he was very good at it. He was near fifteen, like Jon, and while Jon was quite good with a sword, Cregan was even better. He was a better rider, lancer, and bowman as well.

Some boys, Ned thought, are just born with a knack for it, and when such a boy combines the discipline that Cregan had with training, they usually make for great warriors.

To Cregan's left rode Bran, Brandon's youngest; a boy of ten years, closer to eleven with each turn of the moon. Where Brandon looked every inch a Stark, Brandon favored his Tully mother; auburn haired and blue eyed.

Ned had wondered why Brandon and Cat would name the boy Bran- not Brandon, Bran, specifically. Brandon explained that he named the boy for Bran The Builder, who, according to legend, was the son of Brandon The Bloody. When Ned countered that Bran The Builder was also named Brandon, his brother took him into the library of Winterfell, sat him down, and showed him several scrolls and tomes. It was then that it came to Ned; while Bran The Builder was oft times named as 'Brandon', far more often, especially as the texts became older, more obscure, he was named specifically as 'Bran'.

As to why, Brandon said, almost wistfully, "I am certainly bloody enough to be called 'The Bloody' myself, it seems fitting to name the boy for something more hopeful."

Just behind the line of wolves, among some of Brandon's best men, rode Arya and Aregelle, japing back and forth about things only two Stark women would find amusing, Ned supposed.

Aregelle would soon be thirteen, and Brandon and Cat had already begun entertaining proposals for the girl's hand. She looked like Cat in the way Cregan looked like Brandon; long, auburn hair, blue Tully eyes, tall, yet not awkwardly so; graceful, soft spoken, well read. She was growing into a near perfect southron lady; flawless etiquette, poise, the whole of it.

There was a lot of Brandon in her though. She could be fierce- the sort of fierceness that generally frightened the proper ladies. She was like a Mormont woman, from Bear Island in that way.

Like Lyanna...

While Cat had forbidden Aregelle from practicing at swords, it hadn't stopped the girl from practicing at the bow, and she'd become just as steady with one as the boys had; Cregan, Jon, and Artos. Bran would catch up, the way he practiced.

So would Arya.

Arya was his daughter, soon to be eleven herself, and while Ashara was every bit the courtly lady as Cat- even more so, having spent time at court herself, as part of Princess Elia Martell's retinue -Arya was almost exactly like Lyanna; her looks, her disposition, the whole of it.

If Cregan were Brandon, Aregelle were Cat, Jon were Ned, and Artos were Ser Arthur, then Arya was most certainly Lyanna. While Aregelle grudgingly accepted her part to play within House Stark, Arya seemed to want none of it. She was every bit as smart as her cousin, but nowhere near as refined. Aregelle had sulked over being denied a sword, but eventually got over it.

Arya wasn't letting the matter drop so easily.

While Aregelle went about her sewing, needle point, all of that, Arya was constantly being scolded by the septa for not wanting to do any of it.

Some of the girls at Winterfell would tease her for it, and make sport of her.

When Aregelle wasn't around, at least.

When Aregelle was present, none of the little winter birds dared speak to Arya in any manner other than as one should speak to the daughter of the great house your family served. Though not sisters by birth, Aregelle and Arya were sisters in blood; they had a bond, strong as Cregan to Bran, or Jon to Artos. Then again, such bonds had been forged between Cregan and Jon, and Artos and Bran.

It was almost as if Brandon and Ned had sired one pack from two.

"A good thing." Ned thought to himself, "Winter is coming, and the pack must be a pack to survive."

On their return to Winterfell, Ned's horse was alarmed and began to back off.

After bringing the horse under control, Ned saw the reason.

Laying in the road before him was a rather large hart, with part of it's rack broken off, and it's throat ripped out- by something with jaws larger than anything Ned could think of that roamed The North.

As he came down from his horse, Cregan, Jon, Artos and Bran dismounted as well, and they slowly approached the dead stag.

"Gods," Cregan said with a wince, "the stench!"

"Must have been here a while, perhaps a day or two." Jon said, softly.

"What sort of bite is that, Father?" Artos puzzled, covering his nose and kneeling to inspect it closer.

"A direwolf." Bran said, rather firmly.

"Certainly big enough a bite, but there haven't been direwolves in The North in centuries." Ned replied, examining the carcass himself. "Whatever it was, it was strong enough to-"

Ned's thought was cut short as his gaze spotted something it hadn't until now. There was dried blood on the rack, near the spot that had broken off.

"What is it, Father?" Jon said.

"Blood. Here-" Ned pointed to the horns, "and here. This stag put up a fight. Whatever it was that did this, it's like to have taken some horn for it's troubles."

That's when Ned heard it. Softly, but clearly, the sound, like wolf pups bawling.

Bran took off after the sound, quickly followed by Artos.

"Bran! Artos!" Ned called, but the boys were off and over the small ridge of the side of the road. "Cregan, Jon, follow me. Quickly." he said now, drawing his sword, which his eldest son and nephew did as well.

"Father! Come see!" Artos' voice rang out from over the ridge.

There, lying in the snow, on the reverse side of the ridge, was something that caused Ned to gasp.

A dead direwolf, a bitch, by the look of it, with a piece of the stag's horn stuck through it's neck.

"Tough old beast." Ned said, softly. The wolf didn't smell nearly so bad as the stag. It couldn't have been dead near as long.

"Uncle!" Bran said, with excitement in his voice, "Pups! Six of them! We could keep them, raise them, couldn't we?"

Bran turned to him, holding one of the pups- one with silvery fur -in his arms.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Bran." Cregan said, a bit reluctantly, Ned could tell. His brother clearly liked the idea, and Cregan didn't want the lad to be disappointed by what he knew Ned would say.

"A direwolf is no dog, Bran." Ned said, gently, "They're great beasts that belong in the wild, not kept as pets."

"Without their mother, how will they survive?" Artos asked, now cradling one himself, a smoky gray pup.

Ned turned to Jon, then to Cregan.

He hoped the two older boys would understand.

"Father," Jon began, softly, "the direwolf is our house's sigil. There's six of them, one for each child of the house. Perhaps we were meant to have them."

Ned turned back to his eldest. "Jon, it's a wild thing. You can't tame a wild thing."

"Uncle," Cregan said, lifting two pups now, one black as night, one white as snow, "in the histories, they say Starks took the direwolf as it's sigil because they did just that. I think Jon is right. I think we were meant to have them."

His nephew handed the snow white pup to Jon, and it opened it's eyes- blood red eyes, like a heart tree.

"Very well," Ned sighed, "You'll be responsible for them. All of you. You will feed them, train them, and, if needs be, bury them. Am I understood?"

The boys nodded; Cregan and Jon, solemnly, Artos, slowly, Bran, quickly, with much excitement.

"Alright then, get the other two. Your sisters will certainly want theirs as quick as yours." He said.

* * *

Upon return to Winterfell, Ned sent men to burn the mother wolf; wouldn't be right to leave her out there to rot, and feed carrion.

The children had all named their wolves; Cregan had settled on Shadow, Jon, Ghost. Artos named his Winter, and Bran had named his Summer. Aregelle named hers Zephyr, while Arya named hers Nymeria.

"Brandon will have my head for this." He thought, when the horns blasted, and the great gate began to rise. Through the gate rode Brandon himself, Theon at one side, a cocksure grin on his face, Ser Arran Wolf, The First Sword of Winterfell, to the other. Behind them was a large cart, with a large crate in the back.

"Ned." Brandon said, climbing down from his horse, embracing him.

"Glad to see you well, Brother." Ned replied, returning the embrace.

"Come with me. We've much to talk about." He said, then turned to some of the young hands in the yard. "Hodor, Harras, Erick, Rand, Jayce, see to that crate- take the utmost care with it -I want it brought into the great hall for now. If Lady Catelyn asks, tell her it is by my order. Understood?"

The young men nodded, then began taking the crate down from the cart.

"How were your travels?" Ned asked.

"Dragonstone went well enough. Stannis was very accommodating; I offered to purchase the dragonglass, but he wouldn't hear of it. Said, if it was for the service of The Realm, coin shouldn't be asked for it."

"Honorable man, Stannis." Ned replied, "And Lord Tywin?"

They walked the halls of Winterfell, towards Brandon's solar, and Brandon looked a bit agitated by the mere mention of the name. "Stubborn old bastard wants 'proof'. I don't think he believed a word that I said. Won't commit any men- or his precious gold -without 'proof'. What sort of proof am I supposed to give him? Walk one of them up to his gates at Casterly Rock?"

"Well, that's the problem when a thing doesn't leave a corpse." Ned said dryly.

"Tried explaining that to him, but he wouldn't hear it." Brandon said as they entered the solar and settled in, Brandon into his high backed leather chair behind his desk, Ned in his high backed leather chair in front of it. "Wasn't the only thing I found disturbing in King's Landing though. Here, Jon Arryn asked me to deliver this message to you, personally. Didn't trust it with anybody. Wouldn't even have sent it, were I not there, or so he said."

Ned took the scroll and broke the seal.

It wasn't a long message, but Ned had to read it twice- to be certain that what he'd read the first time was, in fact, what he had thought.

"Gods..." he murmured, a cold chill running down his spine.

"Ned?" Brandon said, alarmed, "Ned, what is it? What does Lord Arryn say?"

He couldn't speak- his throat went dry -he reached for his water cup and drained it in near one swallow.

"NED?!" Brandon barked, "Brother, what is it?!"

He still couldn't speak. Instead, he handed the message to Brandon.

"Lord Eddard, I write this message at haste. I trust none but your own brother with it's contents..." Brandon began, reading aloud.

Then he stopped, and Ned watched as his brother's face drained of all color.

"The Gods..." Brandon murmured.

There was a sudden knock on the door, followed by the voice of Maester Luwin, Winterfell's maester, and one of Brandon's- and Ned's -closest advisors. "Ill news, my lord." he announced.

"Enter," Brandon said now, quickly tucking the missive into his jerkin.

The aging maester entered and approached Brandon's desk. "A raven, and a rider, Lord Brandon; the raven is from the capital."

"What news?" Brandon asked abruptly.

"Jon Arryn is dead, my lord." Luwin replied.

Ned went cold.

Jon Arryn had been like a father to him, but, having read his last missive...

His blood began to run hot.

"How?" Brandon ground out.

"Grand Maester Pycelle claims it was a fever- very sudden, took him very quickly."

Ned looked up, and Brandon's eyes were already upon him.

His brother, as though he could read it on Ned's face, simply nodded slowly.

"There's more, my lord. The King rides north, as we speak."

"Only one reason he'd drag his fat, drunken ass up here, Ned..." Brandon began in a low, angry tone.

"What of the rider?" Ned said, a low, cool tone to his voice now.

"From the Eyrie, my lord..." the old maester began. "Ser Denys Arryn."

"Ser Denys? He keeps The Gates of The Moon!" Brandon's voice rose, "Why would Elbert-?"

Luwin opened the door, and Ser Denys, a man both Ned and Brandon had gone to war with- twice -strode into the room.

"Ser, what news?" Brandon said, shock still evident in his voice.

The knight bowed, then reached into his left vambrace, retrieving a folded message, with the unbroken seal of House Arryn, then handed it to Brandon. When Brandon was finished reading it, he wiped down his face.

"What is it, Brandon?" Ned asked.

Brandon glanced up at Ser Denys, who nodded, after which, Brandon handed Ned the message.

"I need to see to my wife, Ser. Ned, see to Ser Denys. I believe I may be a while." The Lord of Winterfell said quietly, then rose and left the room.

Ned glanced at the parchment in his hand, and his blood went cold again.

 _ **Brandon,**_

 _ **Lysa is dead. Poisoned wine. The maester confirmed it. Tears of Lys. Know not whom to trust. It was meant for me. I took her cup by mistake, and she took mine. I've sent Denys to you, for he's the only man I know I can trust. Will figure out how to get a message to Lord Hoster and Ser Edmure.**_

 _ **-Elbert**_

Just like that, it seemed, winter had arrived...


End file.
